


Lady Man-Hands

by ms45



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-07-27
Updated: 2012-09-29
Packaged: 2017-10-21 19:42:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/229020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ms45/pseuds/ms45
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Being a butch heterosexual can be a hard, lonely experience, even more so for a young widow. Sometimes, you just want someone – a male someone – to acknowledge your womanly needs…</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> AN: This is my first fanfic, and I've been writing it in bits and pieces, so please point out any inconsistencies. I wrote the current chapter and another section of the same length, then succumbed utterly to writer's block, so I'm publishing this in the hope of embarrassing myself into finishing the damn thing. It's taking place towards the end of Act 1, after Aveline deposes Jevons, but before she decides to start sending bronze marigolds to Donnic. Nothing that happens in this story should be considered to contradict The Long Road, no matter what happens... Rated M for later chapters - this was always intended to get smutty.

The expensively-dressed noble stood on his toes to peek in the bottle-shaped window of the Hightown mansion. Although a fine building, it seemed unaccountably shabby and uninhabited – a crime when all Kirkwall was bursting at the seams with people, and everyone from nobles to Carta scum were selling their own grandmothers to get into even the pokiest apartment, inn or empty crate. He wiped at the dirt on the window to get a better look.

It was hard to tell – on one hand, dust, cobwebs and dark spatters (oil, maybe, or dye?) covered every surface, suggesting an uninhabited abode whose owner could be persuaded to sell at an admittedly outrageous price. On the other, the entryway was well-maintained and clean, implying that someone went in there regularly, and there seemed to be plates stacked on a table that could be seen if one squished one's face right in the corner of the window.

"Can I help you?" said a cold female voice.

He snapped his head around to be confronted with a very tall woman, at least two inches taller than he, standing well within his personal space. Backing away in surprise (and bumping himself on the windowsill), he registered that she had bright red hair held back with leather straps, official-looking armour, and big green eyes that were currently burning holes in him.

"I – I'm sorry serah – I didn't realise – er – is this your residence?"

"The question implies that it is not yours."

The noble stuttered something nonsensical, then recovered himself and turned on what he thought was charm. "Serah, I fear you very much misunderstand me. My name is Pol de Quincy, and I am an agent from Orlais. I need accommodations while I conduct business in Kirkwall. This residence would be entirely suitable." He smiled radiantly, or so he imagined.

The tall woman seemed not to agree. "Then I am sure the Viscount's office will be happy to assist you in locating its title." She indicated the long descent to the Chantry courtyard, beyond which lay the main parade leading to the Viscount's Way, with a sweep of a long and disconcertingly well-developed arm.

"But serah! The wait to see the Viscount is weeks, months even!" She cut him off with an even angrier glare – surely not possible, but there it was – and he suddenly noticed that, in addition to what must surely be city guard armour, she bore a highly efficient-looking blade.

"Good _day_ to you, serah", still indicating the steps to the Chantry. De Quincy thought of ten witty comebacks, dismissed all of them as ill-advised, and nodded goodbye as he shuffled off towards the stairs.

Aveline stared hard at his back as he departed. When he seemed safely gone, she pulled a bronze key from her pouch and let herself in.

Rather than call out, Aveline clunked slowly and heavily up the stairs, slapping her bare hand loudly on the wooden banister. When nothing happened, she ventured a tuneless whistle, as if calling a mabari. Just as she was considering leaving, the door at the top of the landing opened, and a skinny white-haired figure stumbled out and squinted at her. He was wearing nothing but leggings, and his wiry, tattooed frame was both menacing and pathetic.

"Mmmrf" said Fenris, and disappeared back into the bedroom. Well, the former bedroom – now bedroom, loungeroom, kitchenette, bathroom and overall hovel. As Aveline reached the landing he reappeared, wearing an extremely expensive looking spidersilk robe covered with swirling images of exotic flowers.

"Stay here." He swept past her, disappearing into one of the dozens of rooms in the run-down mansion. Aveline let herself into the bedroom and sat in front of the dwindling fire, groaning a little as she took the weight off her feet.

She picked over and dismissed the books scattered carelessly around the room - considering that just about every household in Kirkwall had at least one copy of _Hard in Hightown_ , Aveline wondered why Varric wasn't able to easily raise fifty sovereigns all by himself. It was a common mistake made by people who didn't understand publishing, especially the part where any chump who was not too bad with a quill could make their own copies and sell them without so much as having to make up their own steamy scenes.

Fenris reappeared in full armour, with a couple of wooden swords and a rather well-loved shield with a sigil that might have been a griffon, a bear, or a nug for all the detail left from years of pummelling. He tossed one of the swords to her, juggler style, and she caught it neatly by the handle.

"Just chased a dog away from your yard, Fenris"

"Not of the Mabari kind, I gather."

"You're in a prime position in a prime property. I'm just surprised there was only one… But I'm sure the smell of your old tiffins will send them running."

Fenris looked sharply at her. "Not all of us live in a well-stocked guard barracks with rotated washing schedules."

"Not all of us live in a run-down mansion of dubious ownership with an ever-increasing stack of delivery buckets. Aren't they supposed to collect those?" Aveline was teasing, as much as a stuffed shirt like her could – she knew she would end up hauling the buckets back to Lowtown to be washed up and freshly filled with slops for some other schlub who didn't have their own kitchen staff.

"So what did you do about him?"

"Sent him off to appeal to Seneschal Bran, of course. He'll deal with the problem in all due course." Both of them snickered at the thought of Seneschal Bran's idea of "due course". Fenris had occasionally toyed with the idea of anonymously sending the seneschal flowers, since Bran's commitment to doing as little as he could get away with made a significant contribution to the comfort of Fenris' stay.

They went down to the great hall, where they would have the greatest freedom to thrash at each other. They did not always spar in the great hall – sometimes Aveline would insist on training in one of the smaller rooms, or even in a stairwell, in order to be prepared for a variety of fighting conditions.

In a "fair" fight, with a "level playing field" – perhaps if Fenris had never been pumped full of lyrium, if Aveline did not have years of military training combined with being the daughter of a chevalier and the wife of a templar – Fenris would have easily beaten Aveline. But if there was anything Aveline appreciated, it was that there is no level playing field. Motivation, opportunity, surprise, attitude – all of these factors are different for every fight, and can be manipulated for every fight. Fenris' contribution to the sparring matches was motivation – or to put it less politely, raw fury – but Aveline's was professionalism. Given there was no taunt she hadn't heard, no threat that had not been made to her a hundred times, her gift was the single-minded aim to remove the opposition, peacefully if possible, bloodily if not. It made an excellent counterpoint to Fenris' rage.

On this occasion, Aveline had agreed to help Fenris get some experience with the shield. Whilst it would be unfair to call the results disastrous, it was rather like learning to write with one's "dumb hand" – you could make yourself understood, but it would never be as graceful as your normal hand. They cheerfully thumped each other for an hour, gave up on Fenris' shield training and switched back to two-handed, continued for another hour and finally agreed that they had well and truly earned a drink or three.

Aveline gave herself a quick bath while Fenris hunted down the top shelf liquor. This was not from modesty – indeed, as soon as he returned from the cellar he stripped right down and swapped places with her, giving himself a quick bum-balls-armpits wash while Aveline mixed up a couple of Alamarri Apples, so called because they were as fierce as the Avvarian ancestors, and based on apple brandy with a healthy slosh of cinnamon liqueur. (Some people preferred to use only the faintest sniff of cinnamon, but Aveline regarded these people as romantic fools who read too many Orlesian bodice-rippers.) They settled in front of the fire to sip on their Apples, swathed in the expensive robes left after Hawke had raided the most saleable treasures – he in the vibrant flowery robe, she in a relatively restrained (for Tevinters) green robe with an ivy pattern.

"What ended up happening with the tax collectors? I hope you didn't do anything I'd be forced to investigate?" she said as she swirled the brandy in the glass. She held it to her nose and inhaled gently – as expected, the brandy was smooth and subtle, not the bootpolish you'd get at the Hanged Man. Whatever else his years of slavery had done to Fenris, they'd given him an appreciation of the good stuff. That didn't stop him from putting it away like a dwarven trust fund, though.

"Isabela happened. I didn't ask for details."

"That sounds like a wise decision."

She took a sip of the brandy and closed her eyes, letting it pool in her tongue. Fenris, of course, had skulled his cocktail and was now drinking straight out of the bottle in a way that was faintly blasphemous, but then, it wasn't as if he'd actually _paid_ for the brandy.

"What about you? Will you move into Jevons' office straight away, or do they have to parade his head around on a pike first?"

"That isn't funny, Fenris. And no, it will be months before I actually become Guard-Captain. It's different from being in the army – for a start, there's a lot less killing first and asking questions later."

"Pity."

"It's all very well for you to laugh, but I have a chance to actually cure some of the rot in this city. People assume that all the dirtbags are in Darktown or Lowtown, and that's not even close to being true. After all, it's not you or I who can afford to hire the Coterie."

"But what dancing bear act must you put on now? Your guards respect you, and the position is vacant."

"I'll be Acting Guard Captain for a while. I already know all the guardsmen and the patrols, so filling in the day to day work won't be a problem, it's just the administrative bullshit I have to go through. Plus the fact that the nobles won't exactly welcome a foreigner as Guard Captain."

"They'll be more worried about a Guard Captain that isn't for sale."

"You'd think that. But every crim who had Jevons in his pocket has an enemy who now thinks I'm their best friend. They're about to find otherwise."


	2. Chapter 2

Fenris’ longsword technique had improved considerably by the time Aveline next visited, although she noted that he did not attempt to use it in the real world. After they had thrashed each other through most of the mansion, including a room that they hadn’t realised was there until Aveline bodyslammed Fenris into the wall and he fell straight through it, they scrubbed up and collapsed in front of the fire with a well-earned bottle or three.

"…is Hawke your only employer in Kirkwall? You've not joined us much recently. I know you live a frugal life, but even you have to eat."

"Hawke's company is lucrative."

"Even so, you haven't been on a mission in weeks. I worry about you."

"Hawke knows better than to involve me in the concerns of _mages_." The way Fenris spat the word _mages_ left no doubt as to the wisdom of this decision. Of course, Aveline did not need to know that he freelanced on the side, or the nature of that freelancing. Fortunately for his much-valued privacy, her soft heart took the bait.

"I know you've… been through a lot. But mages aren't the same everywhere." An indescribable noise somewhere between a hiss and spit let Aveline know what Fenris thought of _that_. "Mages in the south are much less powerful than in Tevinter. In Kirkwall they can barely leave the Gallows, much less hold political office or own slaves."

"And what do you propose? Throw open the Gallows and let them frolic with demons?"

"Don't be an arse, Fenris. I'm not blind to the risks. In Ferelden, mages are controlled, without the… severity of Kirkwall. We take them to the Circle, but they travel freely and even served at Ostagar. We recognise the danger, but we don't assume each and every mage is about to eat our children."

"But each and every mage… Aveline, this isn't something to jest about. Just because we both respect Bethany doesn't mean that even she can't be tempted. And if a moral, strong woman like Beth is vulnerable, where does that leave every other mage? Besides, Beth lives in poverty and anonymity – would she be little miss sunshine if she had access to real power?"

"Only about as much as you would."

That broke the chill, and ended the conversation. Fenris laughed and sighed "You wound me, Aveline – more wine?" He lifted the bottle, found it empty, and got up to replenish their supplies. Aveline took the opportunity to return to her main concern.

"Could you come and work for me, Fenris? You wield a sword the way other people handle a pen. My guards would improve greatly with you as an example."

Fenris rolled his eyes.

"Firstly, your guards fight with a fish fork and a dessert plate." (He was still smarting from what he viewed as a less than stellar performance with the shield.) "Secondly, it's one thing to accept a Fereldan human in their ranks. Do you really think they'll accept the authority of an _elf_?"

"They accept my authority because of my ability. They'll accept yours. If any of them give you any shit, I'll show them the end of my pommel. Thank you—", accepting a fresh glass.

Fenris could not help stifling a tiny smile even as he became more irritated with Aveline's obtuseness. "I thank you for defending my maidenly honour, but you're a human. Fereldans don't live in alienages – "

"What the hell do you think Darktown is?"

"Fereldans don't live in alienages in _Ferelden_."

Aveline took a deep breath and exhaled slowly through her nose. These conversations never went anywhere useful.

"Very well. But surely you need more respectable employment than… whatever you've been doing."

"I don't need anything from you, Aveline. You already do more than enough. I am grateful."

Aveline sighed.

"It's not just about you, you know. It's nice to be able to ... work with someone on the same level." Aveline's fellow guards were, mostly, good people, honest and hardworking, but nowhere near her level of fighting ability... and, if she was honest, no scholars either.

“You’re getting lonely? There is not a single guard in all of Kirkwall who could match you in feats of strength?” If anyone else had said it, it would have been sarcastic, but Fenris was new to the concept of a sense of humour, putting him one step ahead of Aveline in this respect.

Aveline sputtered and protested – “I wouldn’t have said _lonely_ exactly” – before taking a heroic swig and caving in like the Bone Pit itself. “They’re lovely, but Maker’s breath they’re _dumb_. If you don’t want to talk swords, booze or wallop, you’ve run out of conversation. I tried discussing Brother Genitivi’s book with Brennan and she thought I meant the tavern singer at the Hound and Halla.”

“ _I_ thought you meant the tavern singer at the Hound and Halla. If you’re looking for intellectual sustenance, my abilities lie elsewhere.” Fenris had never confessed to Aveline that he couldn’t read, but she suspected it anyway. She backtracked clumsily.

“You have an excellent excuse for not being well-read. Besides, you’ve travelled. You’ve seen things I haven’t seen—“

“With respect, thank the Maker for _that_.”

“Your memories only go back what, seven years? You’re like a child. You can hardly be expected to be a great scholar.”

This was, of course, the worst thing Aveline could say. Fenris lay on his back and huffed loudly. After a long, uncomfortable silence, Aveline asked, “Should I leave?”

Another long _huffffffff_. “No. You’re openly and innocently offensive. Believe it or not, it’s why I like you.” At Aveline’s huffy “Well I can’t help being—“ he held up a scarred hand in a STOP motion. “I would like to talk wallop now.”

“You don’t know anything about wallop.”

“Tell me.”

“ _I_ don’t know anything about wallop.”

“Well, we’re fucked then.”

Fenris sprawled in a most unattractive way with his arm over his eyes, clutching his bottle of wine by the neck as if it might run away, whilst Aveline got up and farted around with their glasses. She didn’t really want another drink, but she did want to stop fighting. Finally, Fenris creaked into a sitting position, peered at the bottle and skulled from it thoughtfully.

“All right then. Lonely.”

“I said I wasn’t—“

“Pick whatever euphemism you like, Aveline. You have friends, so I assume it’s not just company you seek.”

Aveline glowered at him, mouth set in a thin line, waiting for him to back down. She should have known better.

“You were a married woman, were you not? Was it an arranged marriage?” He wasn’t baiting her – he genuinely had no idea how free people arranged their affairs.

“What? No!” exclaimed Aveline. “We met… hunting abominations.”

 Fenris paused to appreciate the beauty of this statement.

“What was he like?”

“Wesley? You’d have liked him, I think. Very straight up. He was a templar, you know, and very solid in his faith. I envied that.” She sipped her wine thoughtfully. “It was very… natural. Like we’d known each other forever.”

This was a memory so completely edited that Aveline didn’t even know she was lying to herself. Their early relationship was not at all like they’d known each other forever – more as if they’d met under horrific circumstances, with a distrust of strangers, and only bonded over the spilling of blood.

But the next part… ah, that was the part Aveline chose to remember. A man with whom she could discuss combat strategy, the relative merits of longswords and greatswords, and even controversial points of faith without having to worry that he’d find her aggressive, contrary or unfeminine. Once he’d thanked her for clarifying his opinion on a point of Chantry doctrine she personally found ludicrous. She’d almost fallen over. 

“You… have no love for Kirkwall’s templars.”

“I’m not collecting templars, Fenris” Aveline huffed. “It’s just that a fellow warrior understands. Not just about swords and armor and fighting. About… responsibility. Sacrifice.”

Fenris fell silent. Did he understand about responsibility? He’d sacrificed enough. He’d been looking after himself for several years, neither depending on others nor assisting them without payment. After so many years of slavery, it had taken a long time to get used to living a life that was not regimented. For all that his status forced him to serve others, it also meant that decisions were made for him – decisions that were now his alone.

“What do you mean?” he asked cautiously.

Aveline sat up straight, clearly readying a rant she’d prepared earlier.

“I’m now responsible for the wellbeing of life and property for a hundred thousand Kirkwallers, including eight thousand dwarves, seven thousand Fereldans, two thousand elves, one thousand qunari and eight hundred mages that we know of, Maker knows how many apostates. The biggest employers in Kirkwall are the Carta, the Coterie, the Chantry, the Viscount’s Office and the Merchant’s Guild, which I’m pretty sure is mostly Carta anyway. I – “

“No City Guard?”

“We’re included in the Viscount’s office.” Aveline smiled grimly. “One thousand of us versus five thousand or so Carta, three thousand Coterie… seems like a fair fight, don’t you think?”

"And I'm sure you scare the piss out of them."

Fenris was smiling as he said it, but Aveline flinched anyway. After twenty years of being called "mannish", "scary", and other much less respectful epithets, she felt she should have been used to it. But marriage to Wesley had provided a much needed reprieve from being "Lady Man-Hands", and for the years they had together, Aveline had been able to feel small, dainty and feminine, if not actually in need of rescue.

She turned her face to the fire and said "People are scared so easily." Her voice shook, only the tiniest bit, but she despised herself for it.

Even after all the wine he’d drunk, Fenris realised Aveline was not taking it as a compliment. "That they are," he rumbled, raising the bottle in what he intended as a gesture of brotherly sympathy. Aveline did not respond, staring intently into the fire as if to put it out.

"Venhedis" Fenris hissed and moved closer to Aveline. "I…" He went to put his arm around her shoulders, then decided touching her back would be less confrontational. She started to speak, then stopped. Then opened her mouth and stopped again. After a couple more of these Fenris decided she wasn't in any condition to chop him in half, and wrapped his arms tightly around her waist.

"Doesn't that hurt?" she said, surprised but grateful to be distracted from what she felt was childish snivelling.

"It's not… physical. Don't you have somewhere you hate to be touched?"

She laughed bitterly. It had taken months to stop being self conscious after marrying Wesley, even knowing that he desired her and demonstrated that desire both verbally and physically. Fenris' touch made her realise how much she missed her big man, in every way. She smiled at him and said "You're not my type, you know."

"Nor you mine." She laughed more genuinely at this, remembering his rebuffs to Isabela, calculated to make the pirate captain come back for more. "Perhaps I should wear a dishcloth on my head, and get my lip pierced?"

"No." Fenris brought his hand to her face and looked her directly in the eyes. "You should wear guard armour, and carry a sharp longsword, and continue to scare the piss out of snivelling shits whose bravado is as long as their last pint of ale."

Despite his lack of height and bulk, and despite her lack of voluminous bosom, kissing seemed like the logical thing to do. It would be a sexless, fraternal kiss, to cement a friendship between sparring partners and warriors.

This surely remained their intention for at least the first minute or so of the kiss, even after Fenris began sucking gently on Aveline's lower lip, and certainly after Aveline had brought her hands to rest around his hips, because after all, it's not like she was grabbing his arse or anything, Maker's breath, it wasn't even like he _had_ any sort of arse, just vertical lines of bone and muscle.

And surely, given that they knew each other so well, had been fighting and drinking and bathing in each other's presence for three years, it wouldn't be taken the wrong way by anyone if she was to run her hands firmly over his defined, muscular back. And if Fenris was to respond naturally – which he clearly was doing, although not as impressively as poor Wesley – well, he could hardly be faulted for that.

Regretfully, and with great difficulty, Aveline broke the kiss to gasp "this is a terrible idea.”

“Mmmm.”


End file.
